


La Miséricorde

by LysanderandHermia



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Breaking points, Conversations, Drinking, Gen, M/M, Sad Grantaire, Verbal Abuse, Verbal Humiliation, it's not even in the fun way guys, this is fucking depressing you've been warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 19:11:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8025619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LysanderandHermia/pseuds/LysanderandHermia
Summary: He doesn’t know how to fight for himself, doesn’t even know how to fight with his friends, for his friends, for darling, dearest Patria that is the only one Enjolras will ever love.
---
The one where Grantaire tries being sober.





	La Miséricorde

**Author's Note:**

> Quite possibly the saddest stupid thing I've ever written. Also, because it's obscure as fuck because I'm an asshole, the 'musette de cour' that Grantaire mentions is an 18th century musical instrument. Think oboe and bagpipes having a French baby.

“Mercy me,” comes a familiar voice from behind Grantaire, and he spins around to find Enjolras standing before him, hands tucked deep into his pockets against the chill, “If it isn’t the Grand R.” The contempt in his voice is clear, and Grantaire shrinks in on himself, his proverbial backbone still very thin and weak. 

Clearing his throat, Grantaire tries to keep his voice from warbling as he responds, “Apollo, what brings you out this fine evening?”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow, reaching up to tuck a strand of his golden curls back behind his ear, escaped from the tie he’s pulled it back, and huffs out a breath of steamy air, “I’m heading for the Musain, for our weekly meeting. I had assumed you would already be there, drowning yourself as usual in your ever filled glass.” 

Something inside of Grantaire twitches in anger at the way Enjolras speaks to him. Does it always anger him, or has he just always been too drunk to care or notice that in the cold bright and sober light of day, Enjolras is rude to him? 

“Have mercy, monsieur,” Grantaire finally responds, unable to look Enjolras in the eyes, unable to look the man he so admires in the face, “I’m simply hesitant to be there tonight.”

Apollo himself laughs in his face, “Thinking of frequenting a different establishment? Probably for the best. The women-folk all know you too well now at the Musain to want a second evening in your company, I presume.”

Another twitch, this time, bigger, and Grantaire wants to fight for himself, wants to show Enjolras that he has been slowly watering down his own wine, that he has been making amends, has been taking walks and spending time relearning his musette de cour, that he is  _ sober _ now, and has been doing so, so well at it. 

He doesn’t know how to fight for himself, doesn’t even know how to fight with his friends, for his friends, for darling, dearest  _ Patria _ that is the only one Enjolras will ever love. Grantaire stutters, and Enjolras rolls his eyes, “I am sure if that’s the case, you won’t be missed; you hardly bother to bring anything to the conversations we have with the Amis, and when you do, it’s hardly helpful.”

He’s helped, he’s stood with them at rallies - okay, not actively participating, but on their side - and he’s offered, at least he thinks, opposing opinions, offering up critiques and finding holes in plans that, while being done cheekily and with no small amount of sarcasm, that are nonetheless useful. Grantaire is capable of better things, he knows he is, he’s proven it to himself. He is going to prove it to the world, next. 

“I am coming to the Musain, I am only worried for what I’ll find within,” he thinks of the atmosphere, of the easily accessible bar, the barkeep that will give him free drinks all night because he makes the place lively and fun, how easy it will be to slip into old habits. He thinks of his friends there, though, and some of his worry settles. 

“What, more people that abhore you being there, distracting and breaking resolve?” Enjolras steps past Grantaire with an annoyed huff, continuing down the cobblestone towards their meeting place.

Enjolras’ pedestal cracks and shatters at the same moment that Grantaire’s shaky resolve to do better by himself does.

It takes several minutes after Enjolras has long disappeared into the early evening before Grantaire can push himself up from where he’s sagged against the wall. Do his friends see him so? Truly? And if so, would he be able to survive making amends for his behaviors? It is hard enough already, knowing what a fool he’s made of himself in the past, but up until a few short minutes ago, he has had friends to help him. Are they not his friends, after all?

Cynicism wins out. It always does in the end, and Enjolras has always been right in the past. 

When Grantaire appears at the Musain, he goes straight for the bar, and doesn’t turn to find a seat among the people he’s here to be with until he’s well and good into his second bottle of wine, flopping into his seat and staring at the floor with reddened eyes. No one comments, and that means that Enjolras is right (no one knows what to say, at first). 

And when the whispers do move through the group, when they lament that Grantaire has turned to his bottle again already, that they don’t know what to do to help him, the confusion of what has driven him back to the liquor after he had been so resolved and quietly proud of himself, when Enjolras catches wind of these whispers and quietly asks Combeferre for confirmation on their accuracy, upon learning and realizing that it is he who has firmly pushed their cynic away, when he tries throughout the evening’s proceedings to pull Grantaire into the conversation, to catch his eye, to find a space to go speak with him, to perhaps apologize to beg forgiveness, for mercy, well. 

Grantaire doesn’t notice, because he has a bottle in his hand, a woman on his lap, and a witty, snarky remark on his lips.


End file.
